The Case Of The First Dance
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Sherlock solves a case but is still flummoxed about a part of it. Well, that's when he has this idea. And that's where this story begins, the story Of John and Sherlock's first dance.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and John were coming back home after solving their last case successfully. Although he had been praised a lot (even by Anderson) Sherlock didn't seem happy about something. Every few seconds, he would snort in derision or cock his head to one side and sit in that position for minutes, before going back to muttering to himself again. John, who was more than adept at handling these situations, let the genius sulk (or think, whatever!)

Sherlock made the huffing noise again when they had reached home, which made John look up from his laptop in irritation. "What is it, Sherlock?" he said, making a face.

"Though your blog works wonders for the weaker minds, do you even think about the case before you start typing at the speed of an alphabet per hour?" Sherlock asked, still a little lost but retaining his usual cranky self.

"I don't need to think," Watson smirked, wheedling a rare smile from Sherlock. "Why are you more annoying _than usual_, anyways? The case is over, what is it that's evading the _brilliant _mind of Sherlock Holmes?" John looked smug at having made that statement but Sherlock was still thinking, one could almost hear the cogs of his mind turning under those blue-black curls.

"Explain the case to me, John. I want the average person's narration and please, don't bother embellishing it like you do in your blog. Tell me what _you_ think the case was," Sherlock said without even looking at John.

"Erm, okay. This guy kidnapped his girlfriend and when she wouldn't marry him, killed her," John said, knowing fully well what his summarized version would result in and he wasn't disappointed. "Well, tell me John, have you been too much around Anderson lately? In fact, even he could have given a better explanation than that!" Sherlock was surprised at his own wrath. Yes, John was being more dimwitted than usual but it wasn't his fault that Donovan kept flirting with him. And…anyways, WHY did Sherlock care? He scoffed at himself for thinking like that and looked at John who was now trying to phrase his thoughts halfheartedly.

"Okay. We found footprints in the garden. They were dancing there and it had rained a few days ago, because the soil was still soft enough to retain their footprints. The guy had a beer belly because there was more than a usual distance between his feet and the girl's which, if they were a couple, was a little weird. This is how you were able to give a description of the guy, that and his stride and foot size, which made Lestrade track him down. He tried to escape and shot at Lestrade but missed. He was hit by a bus while he was running across the street and died on the spot." Watson breathed audibly, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock was looking at John with an expression that was as close to admiration as he could ever offer. The man had a thing with words and even though his blog lacked the essential elements of the case (not to mention his erratic grammar and punctuation), he did a good job of putting things in perspective.

"John, that was fine. But did you notice one thing. There were footmarks that came inside the garden, they were there when they danced but there were only prints of one person returning – the guy's. There was no visible strain on the entire foot and no change in stride which makes it clear that he didn't simple pick her up, forcibly or otherwise, and take her to his vehicle. The footsteps that were going back showed only a marked pressure towards the front, near the toes, that is. How was the girl taken out of the garden then?" John was lost. Not only had he not thought about this but the moment they had caught the killer (his smashed self, rather) the sharp minds of the Scotland Yard had missed it too.

Again, Sherlock managed to dazzle him. It was never totally about the criminals with Sherlock, never. It was also about the science of it all; Sherlock liked to map and play the entire crime in his head at his leisure (which was a little disturbing, once one got over the admiration bit).

John looked at him and shrugged, implying that he didn't know what the solution to this little thing was. He was also sleepy, they hadn't slept for 2 days (Sherlock even more than that…)

"I'll go to bed then, Sherlock. Don't wake me up, if possible. If impossible, still don't. Do not, under any circumstances, even look at the violin. You have driven away all the cats of the neighborhood, anyways, so you'll get no replies if that's what you aim for when you play. There's a little milk left and some fried chicken if you feel hungry (which he knew Sherlock wouldn't, not until he'd solved this damn thing). Goodnight then." John sighed on getting no response from Sherlock, locked his laptop (Sherlock had tried to spy on his personal folders when he got really bored and hence, John had put a password even though he knew Sherlock would crack it in minutes)

Meanwhile, in Sherlock's head, a stocky guy with a beer belly was dancing with a delicate girl in a white dress. They were smiling a lot and he kept trying to bring her closer to himself but she still maintained a distance. Was she turned off by his physical characteristics? Maybe. Or was the reason his breath that smelled of rum ? Probably both. But she still loved him, loved him enough to give him a peck on his forehead every time she took a turn. And then…blank. Sherlock was flummoxed. How did the girl get out of the garden without leaving footprints? Did she fly away?

It was well past 3 am and things still refused to click into place.

Well, that's when he had the idea. And that's where this story begins, the story Of John and Sherlock's first dance.


	2. Chapter 2

_Are you asleep? –SH_

John was disturbed by his phone beeping and silently cursed himself for not having seen this coming.

_Yes, and I intend to stay so. Gn._

He waited for the phone to beep again but it didn't. It unsettled John; Sherlock was never someone to let him have his way, especially when there was something that was keeping him up at half past 3 in the morning while John slept _peacefully _in the other room. He woke up and looked down, Sherlock's lanky form could be seen by the window, brooding, scanning the streets and terraces for anything unusual; or perhaps, simply cursing the peace and quiet.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John was still bleary eyed and sleepy.

Sherlock looked at him and smiled, the light from the street brought out the sharp cheekbones and the wild curls, dimming the eyes and giving him a soft look. If it were someone else, John would have called this a romantic setting.

"I think I need to ask you for a dance, John," he said, lightly brushing the curls out of his eyes with his long fingers. The midnight blue robe was untied, as if he had done a lot of dancing around himself before asking John to wake up. Somehow, the very idea of Sherlock waltzing alone made John giggle. His expression was not missed by Sherlock either who looked at him _almost_ smiling.

"I know how to waltz, of course, if that's what you are wondering," saying which he stepped forward and stood facing John, the smaller man still wondering what this was all about. Anyways, now that his sleep was gone and he knew better than to not do as Sherlock asked, he moved awkwardly, to let Sherlock hold him. Sherlock gently put his arm around John's waist, pulling him a little closer and John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the other one extended to his side, clasped firmly but strongly in Sherlock's thin ones.

They started moving around, gently at first and then smoothly. Sherlock seemed to glide over the furniture, almost passing through the coffee table and guiding John along with him. They moved to a silent music, John was unsure if it was Brahms or Mozart. He didn't really care, either. He was captivated by Sherlock's movements - the eyes flickering under the closed lids, curls gently moving with his body, robe swishing behind him, the gentle pressure of his hand on his waist, guiding him in a small circle around the living room. John was still mesmerized at how the man could still surprise him.

Sherlock opened his eyes, almost as if he had had a revelation.

"The girl danced with him in the garden and would kiss him lightly on the forehead every time she took a turn," he said to no one in particular. Then he looked at John, drinking in every small detail - the brown eyes that turned hazel in the sun and dark brown when he was thinking, the tip of his tongue peeking out gently to wet his lips when he was nervous or annoyed, smell of Old Spice and his hair that almost seemed golden in the dim room.

"Climb on my feet," he said to John, a gentle tone, not commanding but merely saying it as a statement. John obliged. He gently removed his slippers and climbed on Sherlock's large but slender feet. He could feel veins and bones under him and adjusted his position to just about stand on the toes so as to not give Sherlock a sprain, trying and failing to maintain a distance. A look of triumph crossed Sherlock's eyes; it was fleeting but John noticed it. There was something else too – warmth.

They were very close now, _too_ close. John was now holding Sherlock's shoulders for support, almost wanting to put his arms around his neck. Sherlock moved a little, shifted slightly, the silent music still playing in the background, John's warm body almost touching his own. He looked down at John who was still looking at their feet, realization dawning. _How did the girl get out of the garden without leaving footprints?_

"Oh," was all John could manage because he had noticed the look in Sherlock's eyes. It was a look he had noticed at strange times (and a lot lately) - when John was sitting around absently doodling or when he ate with a particular lack of manners. The first time he had seen it, they were in Starbucks and John had a cream moustache. Before he could think about other instances, Sherlock had bent down and kissed him.

It wasn't a perfect kiss, a chaste one on the lips, gentle pressure and no tongue, exactly like it should be. Their noses collided and they both shifted position. Sherlock gently dipped John's head back and sucked on the lower lip, leaving John moaning and smiling in his mouth.

Realizing that he was still standing on Sherlock's feet, John got off gingerly and looked up at Sherlock. They had seen it coming; they had wanted it to happen for so long and yet, somehow today, the entire wait seemed justified. It was not as perfect as they'd hoped it to be but something gave John the feeling that this made it even more precious.

Sherlock still looked at him, scanning his face, the smile never leaving his eyes.

"Come to bed now, you have solved it," John nudged him on the neck with his nose, breathing in as much as he could. Sherlock put his hand on his waist and danced him to the couch, both of them laughing softly.

And there they spent the night; John nestled comfortably in Sherlock's arms, his head under his chin. There couldn't have been a better first dance.

"It was Mozart," Sherlock said softly in John's hair. John smiled and snuggled closer. The music played on as they slept.


End file.
